The Tragedy of Arthur_ A Novel - Arthur Phillips [100]
“Sorry? Who?”
Which sounds better? (A) I am of melancholy temperament, enlivened now and then by bursts of high or hot spirit, never long-lived, or (B) I’ve been on antidepressants, antianxiety meds, and a Whitman’s Sampler of other mood stabilizers on and off since I was twenty-four, with uneven success.
I like the sound of (A) better, too. Oddly, even after diagnosis, medication, and improvement, I still had the sticky reputation within my family of being unnecessarily morose, something of a drama queen. Dana, despite our twinned similarities and her more concentrated formula of the same psychic chemistry, often seemed the sturdier of us two, living off an extra dollop of serotonin served up with that second X chromosome, happiness guacamole on a celery stick. This impression of her may have resulted because her highs were higher than mine. Her lows were lower, too, but they were offset by everyone’s lingering memory of the peaks. That said, she was always more nervous about the pharmacology, frequently mourning the medicated murder of her edge, the melting of her mildly manic pole.
I was sitting on the couch, foolishly having diluted my own limited serotonin in shiraz, squeezing my temples to wring out a few more drops, shaking my skull for how close I had stood to Petra, how impossible the situation was I had allowed to develop. And, also, I festered in envy at the easy happiness of this bearded, spectacled genius Welshman across from me. I watched him read by the light of the single lamp, hunched over, reflected in the deepening black of the window, and he never looked up at me in the murk, not until my dreaming father cried out from the bedroom, “No, those are my hands!”
Professor Crystal noticed me then. He took off his glasses, since he couldn’t see me anyhow in my shadows, and he rubbed his eyes. “Well, it’s a lovely piece of creativity. It certainly pops like him at many moments. Guenhera and the nurse is lovely. Not ’97, though. No later than 1595, if it is him, perhaps much earlier, in fact. Mightn’t be him on his own. Probably a collaboration, especially if it is before ’93. He rarely flew solo back then.”
“But is it him? Will you authenticate it?”
“I need more time with it. All the language is right. But I need more time.” He considered me. “You know, if you had to say, what is the king’s tragic flaw?”
“He has bipolar disorder,” I said.
“Ha! I hadn’t thought of it quite like that, but yes. That is precisely it. Remarkable. They would have called him excessively humorous, unregulated, perhaps even unfit to rule because of his unfortunate birth. An Elizabethan audience might have seen him as doomed because of that misconception, and everything he does would be seen as futile, a prideful struggle against God’s will. Still, the playwright makes him sympathetic, gives him some strengths. But no, he isn’t a hero that you root for, is he? Except for him to settle down a bit, find some wisdom. Gloucester is right, in the speech about the passions of monarchs. Another failed king on the Elizabethan stage. Do you have to be anywhere? I should very much like to read it again. Will your wife be back soon?”
I cherished his misunderstanding, lovingly nurtured its growth into a fully realized fantasy with another drink, and granted my guest as long as he wished. Eventually my father emerged from the black hallway, not yet reaccustomed to turning on lights when it was dark. “Mmph. Who have we here?” I introduced the two men, and Dana called, telling me it was urgent that I come to the theater right away.
“Petra didn’t turn up? She left hours ago.”
“Please come.”
I left the ex-con in charge of the world-famous linguist and my billion dollars, and I drove badly from Uptown to the Warehouse District, where Dana was shivering on the loading-dock stairs under the stage door.
She jumped up and tried to open the passenger door before I’d even stopped. “Thank you. Drive. Thank you for this. I did a bad thing. Please drive.”
“Home?”
“No, no, no, no.